Dreams
by Dame of Gallifrey
Summary: A series of oneshots, featuring the dreams of various characters of Project Freelancer. Companion series to Little Girl Lost. Carolina/York


She was too young. Of course she was. Only twenty-two.

_You're an old man compared to her! _York paced the stretch of his small room, trying in vain to clear his head. His beautiful young partner had taken up residence and refused to vacate.

"Might I suggest some herbal tea for your insomnia?" The AI stood on the table, with half of a dismantled padlock skewing through his holographic stomach.

"No, D, I don't need tea," he replied, an edge of hysteric laughter creeping into his voice. Instead of tea, an image of Carolina appeared in his head.

_Twenty-twoTwenty-twoTwenty-two. _He repeated it over and over, like a mantra or a prayer, as if this would make it all his thoughts of her disappear. Eleven years. That was old enough to at least be her uncle, wasn't it? And by the time she'd been born he was already a criminal. Before it even. Not that he could remember when it started. Not that he could remember the first time he stole.

His pacing sped up, and he rubbed a hand over his eyes. She hardly liked to be around him; he shouldn't be thinking about her this way. Yet she was so beautiful. And strong. The delicacy her outer beauty seemed to portray was all a lie. A deceit to fool the world. She was stronger than anyone he'd ever known. Which had made the single moment of her weakness all more bitter, all the more tragic.

_The rain pounded down again. But she made no move to avoid it. Instead, she sought it out, embracing its icy knives. All he wanted to do was hold her, shield from this rain and every pain that could hurt her. But he couldn't; she would hate that, and him. And he could never bear her hatred. Not when he loved her so desperately. So instead, he sat beside her, bearing that icy pain with her, giving her the comfort she needed._

_'The least I can do is give her the friend she needs'_, he thought, stretching out on the unmade bed.

"York?" His name was just a whisper in the dark room.

He sat up slowly, unsure. "Cara?" Of course, he would recognize her voice anywhere. But why was she here, in the last place he would ever expect?

"I couldn't sleep," she laughed at the statement, as if admitting some great weakness. But it was more of a punctuated exhalation more than a laugh. He'd never actually heard her laugh. It was as if she constantly had this huge weight on her shoulders, holding her back from any form of happiness. How he wished he could make her laugh.

"So you came here? You flatter me, dear." Still half lost to sleep, he struggled to come up with any kind of reply while fumbling for the light beside his table, so that she wouldn't trip over anything in the dark room.

"Don't." Somehow she had made it across the dark and cluttered room, and found him as well. Gently, she rested her hand on the one that had reached for the light. Her hand was small next to his, her lithe and callous fingers resting on his knuckles, her fingertips lightly brushing his skin. His heart sped up. Surely she could hear it. "Not yet."

"Cara?" The name somehow made its way out, past his heightened emotions and pulsing blood. It was hard to think in the dark room, to remember she was only twenty-two. That he was ancient compared to her. Ancient.

"I'm awful to you, aren't I?" She sat down on the bed, her weight settling near his. She was so close... "I mean, you are nothing but kind and caring and thoughtful towards me, and I couldn't be worse to you."

"I don't think so. I think you're rather wonderful actually. Amazing. Beautiful, even." She still held his left hand with her own right, but he leaned towards her, reaching out with his free hand. It was impossible to focus on anything but her. She was so sweet, so strong, so beautiful it ached. Why couldn't he give in? He was only human, after all.

His right hand found her cheek, resting against it. Calloused but slender fingers stroked the soft skin of her cheek. Too beautiful.

"York?" It was a question, but it wasn't a denial. She hadn't told him to stop, and she hadn't broken his arm. With Cara, that was practically an invitation.

"Too beautiful, even," he whispered, his face inches from hers. Yes, he ached for the woman beside him, admired her, wanted her. But how could he do anything she didn't want? To do so would be a crime.

"Hardly," she whispered back, closer now, almost touching. But nonetheless she reached up to him, softly pressing her lips against his.

That was all York needed. The final spark. He couldn't help himself; there was no control. "Cara," he sighed her name, kissing her more intensely, fervently. They were oil and fire, and nothing could control it.

He let go of her hand, pressing it, against her back, pressing her closer. Her hand traced up his arm, settling on his shoulder. She sighed and he inhaled. "York..." The hand on her cheek traveled to the back of her head, through her hair, hanging free and loose down her shoulders.

Now she was more insistent, forceful even. She grabbed a handful of his hair, trapping him close. Anything to keep it from ending. York shifted, holding onto her for dear life, so that they were lying down now. She looked up at him, though he couldn't see it in the darkness. York was all that was life and energy and it was more beautiful than she could ever be. Perhaps it was merely an attempt to capture some of that energy for herself, but she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling herself ever closer.

York's fingers slipped down to her waist, edging under her thin shirt. They exalted in the softness of her skin, tracing up and down her spine. Surely she couldn't be cold, surely she had to be on fire, but nonetheless she shivered and arched her body into his. Only his fire could ever warm her. Cara let her hands roam across his chest, exploring the contours of his muscles. She pushed aside the threadbare cotton of his shirt, aching to be closer to him. In reply to her unspoken demand, York stripped off the shirt, releasing her for but a moment before returning, more insistent than ever. York gripped her flimsy camisole, tugging it upwards, letting the silken straps fall from her shoulders. All the while, he trailed her fiery kisses from her ear down to her collarbone. They had to have left burn marks for all their heat and passion. She shivered in ecstasy and delight, only stopping when her shirt was completely pulled away. They pressed up against each other, her round breasts rubbing against the hardened muscles of his chest.

York was powerless with her in his arms, out of control. How could he ever oppose anything that brought him closer to her? It was all he wanted. All he ever wanted. It was impossible to feel anything else but the girl, the woman next to him, sighing his name.

"Carolina..." He murmured her full name, pulling back for a second, hovering over her. He knew what he wanted, his body knew what he wanted, but, again, he could never do anything she didn't want.

She rested one of her hand against his cheek, his left cheek. Slowly, she traced up to his bad eye, rolling her fingers over the scars. Finally, she reached up and kissed each one, softly brushing her lips against each, as if she could cure them.

He sighed in ecstasy; nothing had ever felt so wonderful. Moving down against her, he reached for the waist of her thin sweats, letting his hand slip underneath. Her skin was so smooth, so perfect. She was so perfect. She arched her back, trying to help him in whatever way she could. And with her pants out of the way, her legs wrapped around his waist, bringing them both closer together, if such a thing was still possible. She could feel him, feel his need, and knew it mirrored her own. With that in mind, Cara let her legs fall from his waist, so that York could remove his own. The two pressed together, in desperate need for the other.

Finally, York lost his last vestige of control. The hand that held her back slid down, moving to the band of her underwear. His fingertips brushed along her bare skin leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"I lo – "

"York, you are going to be late."

"Wha...?"

"You have target practice at 0800. You are going to be late."

Groggily, York looked around the room. Sunlight poured in through the slit of the window, and the clock read 0750. His head slammed back against his rumpled pillow in defeat.

Goddammit.


End file.
